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1911 
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ONLY NEW ENGLAND 





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Copyright 1911, by 
The Valley Press, 
Springfield, Mass., U. S. A. 
Printed in November 


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CONTENTS 

New England Scenes 
Signs of Spring 
The Children’s Home 
New England Skies 
The Hermit’s Retreat 
A Simple Scene 
The Faith of the Toiler 
The New Day 
The Question 
In Autumn Days 
The Snow Storm 
Only New England 
The Hermit’s Return 
The Home Site 
Lake Florence 
Scenes That Are Fairest 



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ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


ZACew England Scenes 

Oh, who can look at these peaceful hills 
And not feel heavenly blest; 

Or who can gaze on the tranquil scenes 
And not feel a vain unrest 
To follow them on ’til the set of sun— 
Until the sun sinks in the west? 

These hills are more than grandeur, 
Placed here by a hand supreme, 

For they enter the soul as a spirit 

More real than wealth’s vain dream, 
And they border with wealth the courses 
Of life’s uneven stream. 

Whenever we choose to wander 
In New England’s narrow sphere, 

A hill stands out to greet us— 

It seems to welcome us here 
To this free air so plenty 
And these old hills so dear. 

They make the valleys radiant 
Wherever stands the sun, 

And each scene is a finished picture 
Completed the same as begun 
From the sky, whether near or distant 
To the eye of the passing one. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Each scene has its own composition 
And objects so deftly arranged, 

That each is as fair as another, 
Whether near or far estranged 
From the haunts of the hurrying people 
Who nature have disarranged. 

From these hills that lower far upward 
We see in the valleys below 
The homes of these hill-loving people 
And rivers that wind and flow, 

Like the inland tide of the many 
Who constantly come and go. 

And when looking across the valley 
We see reaching up to the sky 
The green-crowned hills in the distance, 
Where slowly the clouds float by 
Over them into the unknown regions 
Where they silently shrink and die. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Signs of Spring 

I know that spring is coming, 

I can feel it in the breeze 

As it blows from out the portals 
Of those gray old leafless trees. 

I can hear it in the downpour 

As it’s lashed by rough March winds, 

Yet, though they sound both loud and bleak, 
They tell us spring begins. 

I can see it in the whole landscape, 

On the earth and in the sky; 

In this vale where winter ceaseth, 

Here has springtime cast an eye. 

In the smaller vales on earth’s cold bosom 
Where the snows of winter lay, 

I can see they shrink and lower 
In the sunshine day by day. 

Soon they’ll join the rushing rivers 
From their ice beds then set free, 

And still with them untiringly 
They will journey to the sea. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


When will they reach that wonted home 
Leaping along in such merry glee, 
Filling the world and our lives around 
With their springtime melody? 

In the sky, deep, sweet, clear blue, 

There are signs no man can tell, 

For whatever springtime doeth 
She does it, oh, so well! 

She brings us thoughts of other days 
When skies are clear and mild, 

When winds blow soft and tenderly 
Like the breath of a little child. 

Those thoughts are sweet, we all must own, 
For they are summer’s golden hours, 

Or w'hen the gold is silver white 
It is summer’s cooling showers. 

But let my thoughts with spring remain 
When earth smiles fresh and bright, 
When but to make our lives anew 
Would be God’s great delight. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


^Uhe Childrens Home 

In a farmhouse, low and ancient, 

Nestled ’mid New England hills, 

Where all forms of nature’s beauty 
Every field and valley fills, 

These young lives began their journey 
In this world of strife and toil, 

To gather their small share of the harvest 
That thrives in this earthly soil. 

They were free from sin and sorrow 
That the world’s poor children know 
In those streets where crime is fertile 
And no gentle breezes blow. 

For their skies were never clouded 
Dimly ’til the storm-clouds lowered, 

And their darkness quickly perished 
When the sun his light outpoured. 

There in that inland home 

They were free to roam at will, 

They cared not for the summer’s scorching heat 
Nor for winter’s storms and chill, 

For there were cool streams in the summer 
Where a childish foot might stray 
Safe, lest any evil tempter 
Might lure it away. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


In the winter there were firesides 
Warm as any ingle glow, 

And safer far than any 

That their later days might know, 

And the crude, old-fashioned fireplace 
Where their kindred used to dream— 

It was there, though so closely hidden 
That it sent no cheerful gleam. 

But the kitchen used to show it 
With its fireboard laid aside, 

There it standeth, silent and as distant 
As the years which it denied, 

And to childish fancy it was wondrous 
How a feast could there be cooked, 

Or a stone hearth made as cheerful 
As our grandsire’s must have looked 

When he called his neighbor in 
To pass the w’inter eve 
In merry jest or earnest thought 
Of this life he soon must leave, 

When he bid him share his best, 

Or drink with him the cup 
Of human kindness which existed 

In those days e’er feelings knew corrupt. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


But the fire which wrought these changes 
They had never yet beheld 
Burning on the black old andirons, 

Or how the dimness soon was quelled 
As the firelight flittered gaily 

Round the crude and humble room, 

And the only shadows then remaining 

Were the shadows of the vanished gloom. 

Sufficient unto them, however, 

Was their own time fireside ingle, 

Which afforded them a resting place 
’Till the cold and summer mingle, 

And they minded not the pure, white snowflakes 
Gathering deep upon the ground, 

Knowing that they brought the splendor 
And could make the sleds go round. 

Thus they played on through the winter 
Learning lessons taught by need, 

Gaining wisdom from the objects 
Scattered free throughout the mead, 

And the springtime brought the rapture 
That only such souls may know 
As mingle with the great Creator 

Out in his fields where the fresh winds blow. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Little thought they of the mother 
Who was toiling day by day, 

Longing for her children’s safety 
Passing through the narrow way, 

Or the father, who in boyhood, 

Roamed the same fields in boyish glee 
Where now he stoops his manly form 
Striving to keep his family. 

They were fields that furnished blessings 
That could follow them through life, 

In remembering how their childhood 
There was glad and free from strife, 
And the haunts they found the fondest 
Were the ones that made them yearn 
For more power to know the meaning 
Of the shapes which they discern. 

The dim hills, blue from distance, 

And green when closer by, 

Filled the mind with many a wonder 
And with beauty filled the eye, 

And within the forest’s silence 
There were mysteries ever deep, 

And secrets which their tongues might utter 
But they somehow choose to keep. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Unless to those who love this nature 
And who often with her speak, 

And who hold with her communion 
Near the vales and fields and creek; 

Then she speaks in language simple 
And in meaning clear and true, 

That the sky though arched for many, 

It is also arched for you. 

The little brooks that murmured softly 
Through the woods so dim and cool, 

Found their way as do the rivers 
Following close by nature’s rule, 

And their words were just as wondrous 
As the river’s mighty roar, 

For they, too, are mystic beings, 

Though in simpleness they bore. 

The swamps w r ere deep with mystery 
And fragrant with the dew, 

Where early bloomed the azalia 
And later the hardhacks grew; 

Each field had its own appellation 
And a reason for being so named, 

And each spot in the wide creation 

Gave a pleasure for which it seemed aimed. 






ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


In tthe pasture the well-known spots 
Were sought at the close of day, 

When the tardy herd at the milking hour 
From the gate was wandering astray. 

How sweet! Can you recall a sweeter thing, 
From your childhood’s vanished days, 

Than following the cows at night barefoot 
Along their narrow, time-worn pathways? 

Such were the fields where they wandered 
And played the games of youth, 

And such were the hills where they pondered 
O’er scenes that were far from uncouth; 
Such were the swamps and the woodlands, 
The dear old home and its heath, 
Abounding in freedom, and stainless 
As the sky which was their sheath. 

And now through the years that are passing, 
When trials come sore and unkind, 

The thoughts of those fields are like blessings 
That gladden a world-weary mind, 

For they know there still is gleaming 

The same blue sky now clear and bright, 
And the same sweet hush appeareth 
When the stars come out at night. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


ZACeu) England Skies 

Oh, these rich New England skies! 
What a world of harmony here lies 
In the crystal, white and blue, 

And the smile of nature true! 

I gaze with rapture at the space, 
Though it seems it’s but the face 
Of the one who made this world 
Where his riches he unfurled. 

Transparent blue ! It stretches away 
To those gates where breaks the day 
As clear and sweet and glorious 
As up in the zenith over us. 

When we walk ’neath foreign skies 
It is there we breathe our sighs, 

Or in those sunny fields that lie 
Where the sun never shuts its eve, 

We even there must long for rest 
And think of the home and blest; 

Of the frolicking wind that blows 
Over white and drifted snows. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Oh, here in old New England! 
Among your hills, New England! 
Beneath these wintry skies 
My life with plenty lies! 

And when my feet shall wander 
No more in the wide world yonder, 
I would rest beneath the ties 
Of these rich New England skies. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


^Che Hermits T^etreat 


Gone is the long, bright summer day! 

Look, my beloved one, 

How sadly sinks the sun 
Behind the western hills, 

And leaves the wrnrld in darkness and in death! 
’Tis the long, cold winter night that comes 
At close of such a day; 

And we must leave these woodland haunts 
Where once the shadows fell 
O’er mossy banks and fern-clad vales 
In summer’s beauteous vernal tide 
To mourn their loss unto themselves. 


Yes, we must leave these scenes of peace and mystery, 
And seek by well-known paths, through forest ways, 
Our home, where bright wood fires may glow. 

Hearest thou the sad winds wailing 
As though a friend w r ere sinking fast, 

And methinks they are a sighing 
For the summer in its death; 

For the fair, sweet flowers that decked the graves 

Of soldiers brave and true 

Are now as silent in their graves 

As those we’ve missed the summer through; 

But, when later sprang the aster, 

By the meadow fences damp, 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


And the goldenrod in splendor 

Crowned the forests, fields and highways lone and wild, 
We thought the autumn time was sweet, 

’Till the winds one night their voices hushed 
When the skies were clear and cold, 

And unmolested fell the frosts 

On the flowers we thought too fair to die. 

Come thou closer to me, 

Let me feel thine incensed touch, 

For the night winds sound so weary, 

And the naked woods seem dreary, 

And this day is long and sad. 

The leaves so long in passing 
Seem loath to leave the balmy airs 
That call the song birds from their slumbers 
To waken in these autumn hours; 

Too soon they’ll lie all unremembered 
In the hollows dark and cold and drear 
And in the chilling winds they’ll rustle, 

Or at the passing footsteps near. 

And should our feet then tread upon them, 

As they lie all crisp and sere, 

We would clasp our hands still tighter, 

While we walked in reverence there. 

For to witness such fair ones declining, 

And passing for long from our sight, 

And soon in the damp all decaying 
They leave our world barren and sad, 









ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


We feel in our hearts such a throbbing 
Over memories of things past control, 

And our helplessness steals into our thinking 
As we alone our yearnings feel. 

And thus these woods that long have been 
Our summer home and, aye, were once 
Our bridal bower, we leave now 
To the timid rabbit’s hunted tread 
And the wild deer’s freedom to be free. 

The gentle winds will sigh 
Through the treetops thin and bare, 

For the flowers long since gone by, 

As one by one, their time was o’er; 

But the dropping nuts will waken 
The squirrel from his sleep, 

And soon the huntsman w r andering, 

Finds the rock where he prepared his winter store, 
And then w r e know the winter soon is here. 

So, now, oh, woods, farewell! 

And farewell ye summer skies! 

Farewell to the day fast waning 
With all its memories! 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Jl Simple Scene 

I have dwelt for a while in a land of peace, 
"Where all yearnings and time seemed to cease; 
Where the peace must resemble the peace above 
In that land that is watched by the Father’s love, 
And I thought as I breathed in this holy spell, 
How sweet it would be to forever dwell 
Just here in this spot of such blessedness 
And know no more of earth’s wretchedness. 

’Tis but a small spot, this patch of blue, 

That my heart loves long with a love that’s true, 
And that flake of green that under it rests 
Like a feather dropped from the robin breasts, 
Unnoticed by all, so simple it were 
That it entereth not in the showy blur 
Of scenes that are grander and more profound 
Than a flake of green on an unfamed ground. 

Yet it’s in such simple things as these, 

Dropped where the host’s eye never sees, 

Is hidden the faintest tint and softest light 
To gladden the chance beholder’s sight; 

And it’s here to my heart in this simple scene— 
So humble the world’s great eye has never seen, 
This softest of green and fairest of blue, 

With that sweet peace shining forever through. 





The trees stand there in such perfect bliss, 
You can see them reach the heavens to kiss. 













ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


The trees stand there in such perfect bliss, 

You can see them reach the heavens to kiss, 

You hear no word, though you know they would say 
They are living in peace with every day, 

And you feel for yourself that burdens have fled, 
And that care and strife is forever dead, 

And that troubles that worry the mind 
Are as footprints left behind, 

When you stand absolved at this peaceful spell, 
At this scene where your soul longs to dwell, 

And as for me, as I watch this changing glory, 
That is perfect in song, and sought for in story, 

I feel that in loving such things as these 
Our love goes up to the God who through it sees, 
And gives for that love this rest to the soul, 
Which no grander scene without it could control. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


^he Faith of the C Goiler 

My soul looks on thine own, 

Thou keeper of the eternal throne, 
And longs for rest; 

Here in this vast wilderness, 
Mingled with joy is weariness, 
Where days are oftimes dreariness, 
When fails my best. 

I have been faithful long, 

Giving in grief a song, 

To dull its pains, 

Now while I gaze on thee, 

Tranquil in sky and tree, 

A wish to be ever free 

Steals through my veins. 

Then lead me gently on, 

Through night to fairest dawn, 

Till yearnings cease; 

As verdure slow is turning, 

Grave hopes within me burning, 
For help my heart is yearning 
To find release. 

Hear thou my humble prayer— 
What though through toil and care 
I needs must tread, 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Thou who art ever near, 

Catching with listening ear 
Our words of pain and fear, 

Wilt comforts spread. 

And I, in my time, will see 
All the good thou hast kept for me 
Through years of strife, 

When the hopes my heart has known, 
And the yearnings that have flown, 
Through my days by patience blown., 
Have spent their life. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


^Uhe £\£eiv ‘Day 

Yet all this must pass away, 

Soon there comes another day— 

See the morning breaking there, 

Will it be of dark or fair? 

Will there be for all and me 
Changed but sweeter harmony 
Than the joys of yesterday past, 

All too fair to be and last? 

When this day is well begun, 

And we see the new-born sun, 

Other joys will then be known 
More matured than those just flown. 

Yet they are not so far behind, 

For memory’s power is very kind, 
And what might pass clear away 
Is ever fresh in memory’s day. 

So the things we used to see, 

In our minds they still shall be, 

Still shall follow through our years, 
Though they bring us smiles or tears. 

And if today no joy doth bring, 

It cannot change this sacred thing, 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


For so oft what memory holds dear 

Is far more precious than what now is here. 

And the changes sure must come, 

For Time’s great wheel keeps constant hum; 
And though the day which pleased us best, 
It must pass on like the rest. 

For what is life but constant run, 

Constant rise and set of sun, 

Constant change froin child to man, 

And our life’s time soon we span. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


^he Question 

What is this human life, 

And what its purpose here, 

And what is life, and what is death 
And why is earth so dear? 

'Why do we mourn when one poor soul 
Departs this human life 
To enter the realm of eternal sleep, 

Where there is neither pain nor strife? 

What means this struggling 
That human souls go through, 

So different from other life 
That on this earth we know? 

Why was a human heart 
Given to suffer woe, 

When it must take just what is sent, 

And cannot thwart the blow? 

And why, why was this mortal life 
Placed here in transient day, 

To stay until another clung to it, 

And then be snatched rudely away? 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Could not this earth go on apace, 

And time and all be well, 

If mortal man had not been made 
Upon its face to dwell? 

For life is frail and delicate, 

And so uncertain is its stay, 

And so full of anxious longings, 

Is it worth its longest day? 

Are the joys to each one given 

Equal the pain of hopes overthrown, 
When those hopes were next to life 
So into our hearts they had grown ? 

But the pain, the hopes and tears, 

The joys and longings and strife 
We know because we feel, and only ask 
What is this human life? 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


In yhitumn T)ays 

These are the days when solemn thoughts 
Across our minds are stealing, 

When melancholy all the day, 

The sad sea seems revealing 
Truths that come again to haunt us, 

And that make our hearts beat sore, 

Though we do not shrink from seeing 
Nearer come the evermore. 

The whole long day brings memories only 
Of things that have been and are gone, 

And we sigh at sight of the darkening clouds 
For some bright hope to rest upon, 

But where once were skies of softest blue, 

And flower strewn paths we hoped could last, 
Are now sad sunsets in the weird west 

And roads deserted, leading ever to the past. 

If perchance some calm day calls us 
For a stroll through childhood’s isle, 

And we wander, idly thinking 
Retrospective thoughts the while, 

First of all there is to greet us 

The same dear fields and the same old tree, 
The same fond hills loom there as ever 
And the brook still calls for them and me. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Then the house, that dear old home tree! 

What memories come to those who wander 
Past these humble cottages that sheltered 
Loved ones who have passed on yonder, 

And a few who have reached that land eternal 
Known here to us only as death, 

Yet their spirit seems to linger here 
Round us in undying breath. 

And the road that leads far backward 
Must lead past the graveyard gate, 

Where in perfect peace unwithered 
That little bud awaiteth its mate; 

Others were caught in the conflict, 

Some in the midst of the strife, 

And some all scarred and hoary 
Ready to enter the mystic life. 


Yet sleep on, long mourned, beloved, 
It is not our wish to grieve 
And this hour calls us still backward 
To those days passed by so brief, 
Stands the same old school unaltered 
Except in seeming silent and cold, 
For of all those whom we knew here 
Not one is left within its fold. 











ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Yet its rest to the tired wanderer 
To review again these days, 

If to the heart steals a feeling 

Akin to the solemness of these silent ways 
As backward, yet homeward, our wanderings lead 
Through scenes mysterious and sad, 

Dreaming, ever dreaming, and guessing, 

Why man and the sea are never glad. 

But sadder than our weary heartbeats, 

And sadder than the sea, 

Are the wailings of the forest, 

That are born from many a tree, 

As, shorn of their vernal splendor, 

They sigh for memories fled, 

As we breathe a benediction 
Over our silent dead. 

They sigh for the leaves which were their pride 
In those bygone summer hours, 

Now sleeping the soundless sleep of death 
Which is different from the sleep of ours, 

For us is one glad awakening 

Into a life devoid forever of pain, 

While the leaves and the summer die only 
To live and die again. 











IVhat makes you think of the acres of God 
More than these fields of unstained snow? 







\ 










ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


^Uhe Snow Storm 

Like a feather floating downward 
From the bird of aerial heights, 

Until on some rude embankment, 

Like a flower on earth it lights, 

Fell the feathery flakes of winter 
From the clouds above their flights, 
Covering all our naked landscape 
With millions of crystal sights. 

What a hush comes with the storm 
As faster the snowflakes fall, 

Filling the air and noiselessly 
So soon to cover all 
With this soft down from the sky 
To make for earth a pall 
Out of silence sheer and white, 

And our thoughts to action call. 

The bare old earth growing softer 
How soon we did never know, 

For through those deepening snowflakes 
Not a blemish could ever show, 

Every twig on the old tree boreth 
An inch of the pearly snow, 

And the shrubs beneath their branches 
Were laden alike below. 






ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Each child of the coniferae family 
Upheld in their garments green 
Such loads of ermine likeness 
Too bountiful to deck a queen, 

Until laden, drooping downward 
With snowflakes all between, 

We imagine we are in that land 
That never was truly seen. 

The earth now robed in purest white, 

And in stillness becoming profound, 

Our feet it seems have taken wing 
And borne us up from the ground 
Where human foot was never trod, 

Nor the stillness broke by mortal sound. 
Where only the silences of God 
In this region doth ever abound. 

Where once were stiff bare trees, 

Soft veiled virgins stand, 

Whose trailing robes fall gracefully 
Over the deeply snow-hid land, 

Where the distance seemeth nearer 
Under lowered skies, oh, so grand, 

That we thank God for the snowstorm, 

And this still white gift of his hand. 








ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Or?/p 3\[_eu) England 


Yet some would leave such scenes as these, 

Though their reason I’ll never know, 

And some do leave these blessed hills and leas, 

Still I know not why tney go 
From this land where the heart cannot weary, 

But what one hour may bring release, 

Or the soul for a change grow dreary, 

For here, right here the pain may cease. 

Be ye soul sick in the city of its constant ebb and flow, 
Long ye for the quiet of the country side so free, 

Or to the dim, dense, wild old forest seek ye most to go 
Where your soul expands to catch their mystery; 
Where you live in one day so many years, 

So much of their work you have seen, 

And you muse the while how those silent seers 
Exultant seem there in their solitude serene. 

Perchance it is enduring mountains lure you longingly, 
Just to feel their awesome wonder fill your thoughts 
again, 

Whether you stand unseen before their majesty, 

Or from their summit the earth at your feet is plain, 
Your thoughts are never idle nor your fancy yet ap¬ 
peased, 

For you are not content on the vision’s scope to dwell, 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


But you dream and dream, were the far distance re¬ 
leased 

There might lie the land yourself hath loved so well. 

Or dost the gray old ocean with its mysteries fathoms 
deep, 

With its secrets numbered only as the sands upon its 
beach, 

Drown all other memories and your thoughts within 
its boundary keep, 

Drifting idly with its billows, far beyond the clamor¬ 
ing reach 

Of the inland cry of “Faster, faster, pile the coins up! 

Up to hights of sin or sorrow, up to hights that fear 
not God! 

Up to hights where mercy fleeth!” then is left the bitter 
cup 

To remind them how more precious is the freedom 
of the sod. 

Then seek ye ocean’s weirdness or the mountains’ hazy 
views, 

Or the chaste and quiet glory of the lesser hills about 

That skirt these teeming valleys as pure as summer 
dews, 

Where few seek whence the wild flower or where 
the brooklets scout; 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


They are here in all their power, peace and grandeur, 
too; 

Power to subdue all clouds the din of policies has 
brought, 

Peace to sooth the passion if man would seek what’s 
true, 

And grandeur that enriches the noblest elevating 
thought. 

Here the elements are the kindest to man, 

For on us their wrath they never shower, 

Where nature reigns the best she can, 

What cause for destruction in one brief hour? 

In our cities is wealth and peace where our cattle 
graze, 

Our rivers unlimited power they keep, 

And our fields their harvests we’ll praise 
When the summer at last lies down to sleep. 

Some seek, I know, the golden West, 

For the wealth they think is there 
Where they think the gods piled up their best, 

I ask this free, unstinted air; 

Some think the sunny, southern lands 
The only place to happily dwell, 

When winter holds us with icy hands, 

It is then I love it well. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


I love the blue, blue winter skies 
That bend o’er this desolate land, 

I love the hoary scene that patiently lies, 

And I feel a peace few understand; 

I find in the gloom of the forest forsaken 
A calmness that conquers the meanest mind, 
And I hear in the pine trees’ grief unslaken 
A song that makes me glad to find. 

At night when the sun to rest is sinking, 

And I know the glow must soon retard, 

I find myself so wierdly thinking 

Of the fires a-burning on the walls of Asgard, 
Or when the threatening storm begins to fall, 
And many remember how the blizzards began, 
How few reflect as the snowflakes soften all 
Of a beautiful Ragnorok of man. 

What makes you think of the acres of God 
More than these fields of unstained snow! 
What makes you feel that angels have trod 
And hid all the scars below! 

Why do you listen to hear his voice 

Come from the silence so deep and profound 
As though you feel his manifest choice 
Might be where the purest calms abound! 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


And when you gaze at the blue, cold hills, 

All crowned in snow so silent and drear, 

How with warmth and emotion your bosom fills 
At thought of home, love and this bounty here; 
For stern old winter does humble the soul 
And bring back the wandering thought 
From the greed to reach that polluted goal 

To these wonderful workings God has wrought. 

And, then, oh, for the joy of the blessed spring! 

Who would not endure such winters as these 
Just to feel the raptures that it will bring 
And the icy winds calmed to a breeze; 

And, oh, for the gladness fhat envelopes all! 

On the earth in sky and air, 

How one to another they joyfully call, 

“Awaken, awaken all ye that are fair!” 

The first to herald the young spring’s birth 
Out somewhere in a sunny field, 

Out now in the lap of the parent earth, 

Waiting for the snows to yield, 

Is the robin who comes heartfull of glee, 

Singing to man and he sings to the hills 
Of the new life we soon shall see 

When these snows go leaping down in rills. 







ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


What can we care if the March winds blow, 

Or if the storms are bleak and wild, 

We know old March carries off the snow 

And will bring us days both bright and mild; 

We are sure the springtime is close at hand, 

When we hear the robin’s song prevail, 

And, behold, in the changing skies and muddy land 
It is only the season in travail. 

What joy to hear down among the rushes, 

Ttie first clear note of the exhumed frog, 

How all our fears at once it hushes, 

For springtime is born down there on a bog! 
What heart that would not bound in glee 
Or soul too dead to offer thanks 
For life to hear that note again set free, 

Come up from the mead or river banks. 

How soon in the sun on a warm hillside, 

Peeping out from the footprints of the year, 

That meek little blossom, our springtime pride, 
Gives up its fragrance from blooms so dear; 
What can show your absolute will the truth 
More than this flower from the humblest sod, 

And bring your promise in the faith of Ruth, 
“Henceforth shall your God be my God.” 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Each day sees a victory in its train 
Now on to meet the vernal May, 

When the earth rejoices in the April rain 
And smiles when comes the sunny day; 

Soon, too, the orchards burst in bloom, 

And soon all the woodlands will sing, 

Soon there will be no sign of gloom, 

Then shall our land with ecstasy ring. 

Our hearts should be as glad and free 
As the air which now exhilarates, 

Remembering, were yours mine could be, 

For who can exult where another hates? 

When trials are sapping the heart’s best life, 

And we plead for light to see it through, 

How it helps to banish the worst of the strife 
Watching the argosies sail the blue. 

The summer time all rejoice to see, 

And all tongues bespeak its praise, 

When the Creator’s best could no better be, 

It is then our glad songs we raise; 

Harmony now is the being supreme, 

Caressing the hills as they lie in sleep, 

Keeping watch o’er the vales while they dream, 

Or entering the woods where the shadows creep. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


What a brotherhood in our forests yet staple, 

Draped about by the clinging vine, 

Where the oaks enclasp tne maple, 

And the birch embraces the pine, 

Dwells in silence, wreathed in shadow, 

Laced upon the moss or underbrush, 

Whilst the sifted sunlight forms a halo 
Round the visions that through fancy rush. 

What land more fair or more serene, 

More blest with nature’s fairest things, 

Than ours when wearing the summer green, 

All resonance with this life creation brings? 

What peace hangs over the broadened lake, 

Or rest comes up from the calm lagoon, 

And we breathe deep of this freedom to partake, 

For both show how rare is the heart of June. 

Where are the nights more calm in repose, 

With a stiller host to watch earth’s slumbers? 

Who says the river Nepenthe more quietly flows 
In the fabled lands peacefulest in nocturnal num 
bers ? 

Where does the moonlight more silvery fall 
Silhouetting the land as the shadows darken? 
Where do the nightbirds more enchantingly call, 

Or the moon in the river pause to harken? 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Where do the morns coming out of the east 
Behold scenes more resourceful alway, 

Glorified nature, rampant for man or beast, 

Than ours which wax into broadest day? 

Where do the days make up the great span 
Of time still hanging for greater length, 

Prouder than here, shrine of the pilgrim man, 

Whose virgin woods gave freedom for his pure faith 
and strength? 

New England, so proud of traditions olden, 

So rich in history since the primeval past, 

Covets these records as a prize that is golden, 

And each true son has a heritage to last; 

Here history began for our country wide, 

And all her sons pay their homage here 
When they traverse these hills, our seacoast beside, 
Ever thoughtful of the cause, of this freedom pur¬ 
chased dear. 

Today there is in New England’s domain 
A leadership in the steady move onward, 

A movement that has not foulness for gain, 

But a learned spirit seems guiding us ever upward. 
Then, here’s to our future, these hills may they stay 
More sturdy, inspiring than yet they stand, 

And when we depart from their outward sight to 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


decay 

Wilt thou, Great God, unite us with thy hidden 
hand! 4 


New England, New England, of thee I sing! 
To thee all my praise I bring! 

Thy name I love 
As it soars above 
All the songs I cannot sing. 

New England, my heart is thine own, 

Thee do I worship at each wooded throne; 

I love thy hills, 

Thy woods and rills 
And all the seasons thou hast known. 

New England, thy valleys are fair, 

And free is thy bountiful air, 

Here man doth dwell, 

In peace so well, 

And rest by thy hills over there. 

New England, my fathers loved thee, 

Land where they found liberty, 

Here, too, they died, 

By the hills’ side, 

Leaving us to worship free. 





ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


New England, since my native lea, 

Kind to my kindred and to me, 

Long may future days, 

In noble, holy ways v , 

Hear praises to God, New England, through thee! 








ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


c (j he Hermit’s Return 

Come, love! Seest thou not the sunshine 
Out in the soft, warm fields of earth, 

Out where the winter has its ending, 

And the springtime has its birth! 

Out where the snows have vanished away 
And the grass is springing to life; 

Out where the winds will be singing today 
Of hours too glad to court strife. 

Should we not leave these thresholds here 
Too full of winter’s tiresome lore, 

And hear how the brook is calling today, 
“Rejoice, rejoice, for winter’s o’er!” 

These firesides here were cheerful then 
When winter’s blasts were cold and drear, 
Rut now those voices are calling to us, 

Such as we have longed to hear. 

And we’ll wander away from the haunts of men 
To the valleys where the snows just lay, 

Or the warm hillside that was first to bare 
And to waken with the smile of May. 

In the groves the pine trees murmur, 

Murmur, though they seem to bring 
Recollections of their cooling shadows, 

And, hark! I hear a bluebird sing. 










ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Come, let us haste, for the sun is high, 
And the fields are full of glory now; 

For the sad old earth has wakened today, 
Calling for gentle spring’s meek bow. 

One by one the robins come 

From their home in sunnier clime; 

And one by one each morn will bring 
Gladder tidings of the vernal time. 

Even yet, perchance, in some dark vale, 
Where the sunlight scarce can fall, 

Snows remain to make us thoughtful 
How its sunshine worketh all; 

How without the blessed sunshine 
In our souls, as in these vales, 

Gloom remains where else in gladness 
Every living thing the springtime hails. 











ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


c&he Home Site 

Build me no costly mansion, 

Shut tight in the city’s awful air, 

Where the hills are but vanished visions, 

And even the sky disappeareth there; 

But build me an humble cottage 

Where the free wind loves to roam, 

Where the glad earth joins in our friendship, 
There build me my humble home. 

Find me a spot thus peaceful, 

Where the hills will around us loom, 

And on it place my dwelling, 

Not only a house but a better home, 

For the costly halls upreared by man, 

Though decked with riches bright and rare, 
Are not a home to my own long yearnings, 
Without the hearts are in union there. 

And I’ll love to hold with some distant hills, 
That lie so mysteriously fair, 

Communion sweet with forms so true, 

While other hearts are absent there; 

For to me they tell full many a tale 
Of the things I love to know, 

How there’s wealth in love and comradeship, 
If only the heart would find it so. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Then seek my humble home site 

Beside the friends we know the best, 
Where wealth’s vain strife is ended, 

When near their peaceful rest; 

And there we will ofttimes linger 
To watch the changing skies, 

And from our own home window 
See how the dream cloud island flies. 

And what if the world without 
Knows not our secrets sweet, 

Knows not in its rivaled joy 

What pleasures guide our feet; 

We’ll gaze in peace on the scenes around, 
While joy dwells in our heart, 

We’ll call all skies immortal friends 
Until^death do us part. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Lal^e Florence 

It lieth closely among the hills, 

And catcheth the voice of the rills, 

As they wantonly glide 
To its crystal side, 

And there in its depths abide. 

It heareth the songs of the winds at play 
Through the long bright hours of the summer day, 
And joins in their son 
As they hasten along, 

Time, change and a restless throng. 

It seemeth peaceful and ever serene, 

Nestled so close to its banks of green, 

Few sounds but nature’s own 
Hold revel here alone, 

And here all nature has a throne. 

It lieth placid and cool and clear 
At the gate of the morning near, 

The sun o’er it shines, 

And the moon never pines, 

And each star its light refines. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


It sleepeth the whole night long, 

And awaketh at morning’s first song, 

It reflects the bright skies, 

There hope never dies, 

And a Lethean peace forever lies. 

It lieth high up in the hills, 

Far away from the city’s doleful ills, 

And knows but the balm 
Of those green trees calm, 

For ^Eolus keeps the winds from harm. 

It seeth the reaper of men 
Gather His own now and then, 

And what better sleep 
Could be found for this sheep 
Than this which Lake Florence doth keep? 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Scenes *£hat j4re Fairest 

In this world no scene is fairer 

Than the green trees’ peaceful hue; 

In my life no friends are dearer 

Than the woods when they are new; 
For their calm and saint-like beauty, 

And their peaceful quietude 
Rest my soul from constant duty 
And feels their own deep solitude. 

And I love, more than tongue can utter, 
Or words can half express, 

To gaze at the silent abutter 
On the skies of loveliness, 

Where they stand, those myriad beings 
Enthroned in holy light, 

And time and its changes seeing, 

They seem a more holy sight. 

Be they in the old home places, 

Where my childhood days were spent, 
Wondering what those forest faces 
Spoke unto the firmament; 

And there methinks they are the fairest, 
Sweet seers of days long past, 

And sharers of the visions rarest 
That were, aye, too sweet to last. 




ONLY NEW ENGLAND 


Be they near our present moorings, 
Where their tones glide sweetly in, 

And thus amid their bounteous lurings 
They stand the next of kin; 

Or, be they in the stranger offering 
Where our steps halt but a while, 

Even there the green woods murmuring, 
Do our weary hearts beguile. 

And so it is in all our wanderings, 

The trees are fondest, worthiest all, 
Whether grouped in forest squanderings 
Or one by one, alone they call, 

They are friends of mine forever, 

They hold secrets sad and sweet, 

And I would leave such friendship never 
For no other could I meet. 

















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